Per Semitas Tempus

Harry: Waking Up

It wasn't the first time Harry had woken up to a noisy house (the Weasleys were plenty loud most mornings). But the shrieking laughter was in a different tone than the twins' cackling laugh and the chatter was vastly off from Mrs Weasley's shrill admonitions of frustration or Mr Weasley's excited rambling. But it was the silence within the room that startled him, made him wary and put him on high-alert. (And he loved Hermione like the sister he never had, but she didn't always understand that just because he didn't let the things he noticed show, didn't mean he didn't notice them at all.)

The sound of a skirt shifting caught his attention and his brain latched onto the sound with a single-minded ferocity and it was then that he noticed other things. There was a slim hand at his forehead, fingers pressing a cold cloth to his face as if to wick away sweat and aid in a breaking fever. But that...that didn't make sense. He wasn't sick, hadn't been sick last night.

Finally, he managed to pry open his eyes and closed them only seconds after while the woman above him (and she was very pretty) made a concerned sound in the back of her throat and carded her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp absently. He opened his eyes again, going much slower this time so that he had time to adjust to the early morning light streaming through the windows.

The woman shifts again and then she's leaning over him, a curtain of black hair masking the light.

Harry blinks up in confusion for a minute, unsure of what is going on or where he is before he's shifting, trying to move only to find that his limbs are heavy and don't want to cooperate.

There's an insistent feeling in his chest, settling right behind his ribs that gives him a sense of familiarity, of love, and of safety in a way he hasn't felt in a long time.

There's a knock on the door and someone pops in that he can't see around the woman's shoulders.

"Lady Rosalyn?" It's a young woman's voice, but not one that's familiar. It's cultured in a way that he hasn't heard since the delegates of Beauxbatons left Hogwarts after the Tournament for the Cup.

"Margot," the woman above him, Rosalyn, says gently. "He'll be fine," she continues, answering an unspoken question. "His fever broke a few hours ago. You can go."

"As you say, Lady Rosalyn," Margot responds before the door shuts again.

Rosalyn sighs above him before she stands and moves. Harry, through half-lidded eyes tracks her movements to the armoire.

"I know you're awake, Caspian," she says, and her voice is still kind but it's cool, the same kind of tone he's heard the Minister use when speaking to his educated, intellectual equals.

Harry doesn't have an answer for that, can only shift until he's propped up on his elbows, and finds the room crystal clear.

He'll die of mortification before he admits that he chokes on his spit when the room is crystal clear in a way it was even with his glasses.

He's a little too in shock and distracted by his clarity of vision that he doesn't answer Rosalyn for several minutes.

He doesn't exactly have an answer for her anyway.